oh why oh why would I want to be anywhere else?

Well, I'm up in the morning, it's true. I've approached it from the wrong side, however, so it's not precisely a success. I stayed up all night reading The Blind Assassin; I have that scraped feeling that comes from not sleeping, and the queasiness that comes from putting black coffee on top of that. I had to get up early this morning for an appointment anyway. At four am I decided that I would read just one more section, and then call it a night. Now it's nearly eight thirty, and not only am I done the book, I've eaten breakfast. I don't know that the coffee made a substantial dent in my vertigo, but next on my list is a shower, so maybe I'll be able to face my adoring public after all.

I really enjoyed the novel, but there's something about Atwood that always makes me slightly desperate. Her heroines are unnervingly human; they make mistakes, have regrets, are cowardly--and their ends are plausible, rather than happy. But they do have passion, which (or so I feel from the ripe old age of 24) I had when I was younger, and am now missing.

It's weird to read a novel that's so intimate with Toronto. Before I moved here I had only the vaguest understanding of the geography of the city; coming in from the 'Saugs, you get off the subway (after picking the stop closest to where you were headed by uncomprehendingly scrutinizing a map full of street names that meant very little), and become passingly familiar with a few blocks in the immediate radius. These unfocused blotches were only knitted together after I spent my first few weeks here roaming the city on foot. Now I rattle off directions and intersections with slight condescension--I guess I'm becoming a Torontonian.

you were racing in a car/ beside a boy you just don't know/ if he is up for what you have in mind

I just ate a bunch of popcorn, and now I feel pukey. But in better news, I spent way too much money on books today! Hurray! The problem with buying books is it's so easily justifiable. And then, eventually you'll be found, unconscious, in a huge pile of literature. I don't know. I just assume all excesses lead to unconsciousness in piles of things. We're lucky I'm here typing, and not buried in popcorn.

I blame my sister. She wanted to go to used book stores, and that meant I went in, too. So, having no will power, I'm now the proud owner of Cryptonomicon (Neal Stephenson; go read it immediately. I'm serious. Just be warned, it's a commitment novel... once you get into it, there's no getting out until the end), The Blind Assassin (Margaret Atwood), and Lady Susan/The Watsons/Sandition (Jane Austen's unfinished works). I also bought the DVD of Coffee and Cigarettes, which was one of those movies I read a review of and really wanted to see, back when I didn't live a short jaunt away from the Cumberland. Speeeaking of which, I should really go and see Paris, Je T'Aime, before four years pass and I end up picking it up randomly at a store on Bloor.

The movies I didn't buy (and it was a close thing) were The Saddest Music in the World and The Gods Must Be Crazy I and II. I'm racking up quite the list of things to blow my money on once I actually start working. Ooh, and I'm going to be putting aside portions of my tip money to save up for a Vespa and my next trip to Europe. I suppose I'll have to pay rent and buy food as well. Bummer.

As some of you may recall, I was briefly obsessed with getting a Vespa a while ago. I kind of forgot about it after I got back from my Europe trip. I can't remember why. Maybe the crushing disappointment of not being swept away to a charming villa by a gorgeous Italian man on a Vespa did it. Anyway, I walked past one the other day, and I couldn't think of one good reason why I shouldn't get one. I'm sure there ARE reasons, but that's later's work, after I've saved up the money. Probably by that point I'll be shacked up and be forced to put it towards a down payment on a house or maternity clothes. GOD, that's depressing.

I am trying, once more, to get to sleep before two am. I'm out of sleeping pills, but all they seemed to do was make it really hard for me to wake up.

I sympathize with Pig, but I'm totally Pigita

like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir

My iTunes library has a lot of strange things in it. Before I moved out of my parents' house, I decided that, perhaps, one day I'd NEED to have The Monkees' Greatest Hits, the soundtracks to Four Weddings and a Funeral and You've Got Mail, and the Canadian cast version of The Phantom of the Opera (here's an embarrassing confession... at least once a year I go through a phase where I listen to the Phantom soundtrack over and over again. Another inexplicable mystery concerning yours truly). I also snagged more useful things, like the greatest hits compilations of Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan and Gordon Lightfoot, and many of the Beatles' albums. So far few of these songs have shown up on my favourites list, but for some reason today I've got the master music list on shuffle. Which means that I'm suddenly going to recognize that I LOVE some of these tunes, and my favourites list will swell unnaturally. Perhaps not so much this Wallflowers song that's playing. But probably a great deal of the Cake I swiped from Emo without bothering to preview.

Yesterday, as I lazed about in my hungover haze, I ended up watching Smoke Signals, which I remember being vaguely interested in when it came out. I missed the very beginning, and I was doing my cross-stitch while watching, so it took me a little longer than usual to pick up on why they were going to Phoenix. Or I'm slow because of all the brain cells I killed. Anyway, Adam Beach looks ten kinds of ridiculous after his impromptu haircut, but niiice bone structure, buddy. The movie was pretty good, but not earth-shakingly amazing. Maybe I'm missing the chromosome that makes me appreciate male-bonding flicks.

Speaking of killing brain cells and my drunken antics on Saturday, I managed to give myself a good scrape on my foot through the sheer gracefulness that usually accompanies my drinking. Not, as one might assume, from when I fell right smack on my ass on the dance floor (I warned everyone that I always fall when I wear those heels, but just because I was expecting it doesn't make it less ridiculous). No, it was after I was back in my apartment, alone and barefoot. Rounding the corner to get to the bathroom, I caught my foot on the strap of the shoe abandoned forlornly by the door, managed to twist it around, and the spike heel gouged a few layers of skin right off my arch. I know, you're wildly impressed. It's only by paying careful attention to my limbs that I avoid being a slapstick punchline every day.

I still haven't made a decision on Mr. Dick-in-the-Box. I feel like the longer I leave it, the more likely it is that I'll just decline the overture in a fit of pique one day. Oh well. Que sera, sera.

we talk to our women; we do not drug them with plants

OH MAN, now Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves is on. Yessss!

I bet you look good on the dance floor

ADMITTEDLY, I am extremely drunk right now. But I just want to reiterate the fact that I am tragically and unironically in love with Dave. I have loved this movie since I was a young lass of ten, watching the previews for it. I distinctly remember them. When I finally saw the actual movie, my love was confirmed. Oh, Kevin Kline. Can you do any wrong?

By the by, we ended up at the Wreck Room. Tom managed to get red wine all over his brand new, expensive shirt (purchased that very day by his girlfriend, Nicole), and the time we spent cleaning and then drying said shirt made us quite late for the busy Madison. I'm drunk, so I'm not feeling super bad about what I did on the dance floor (which was to imitate all the bad dancers on the floor... two of them noticed. One came up to me and claimed I was an amazing dancer, and the other just seemed amused and kept going... as did I). Good solid times.

and if you want roses, you can go buy a bouquet

I added a couple new links.

That was all I was going to write, but I GUESS I could tell you which ones, in case you HADN'T memorized my list of links. There's the Toronto Star's site, which is fabulous because, unlike the Globe and Mail, they don't require you to sign your life away to access all those articles. I do miss having the paper right here with me, but as my erstwhile roommates doubtless remember, I tend to only read it sporadically when I get it delivered specifically to me. The internet is quite the paper saver.

Also, I've linked to George Stroumboulopoulos' site, because I've recently become somewhat addicted to The Hour. Hmm... I should stick that link in there, too. Well, once I'm done this post.

Finally, there's Nerve.com, which is one of those lifestyle/culture/urban kind of websites. I just discovered them, and so far I quite enjoyed the Dating Issue. Plus, it links to a Pickupedia, which is good for a few laughs. I think I'd actually end up having a conversation with the guy who tried, "Hey, does this smell like chloroform to you?" on me.

In totally unrelated news, I've just cleaned my apartment. A few newcomers to chez Susan are dropping by tonight before we head out to the Madison, so I thought putting my bras IN the laundry basket and taking out my recycling was in order. I really do need more posters. I got used to having one big old blank wall, but now it's depressing me.

As much as I've been trapped in here for the last little bit (and the latest on the work front is that they're going to open VERY SOON (although I've heard THAT one before), so my lack of usefulness should end shortly), I have not gotten sick of my apartment. I am still madly in love with it. It's simply glorious to have my own space. I'm not as happy as I thought I'd be, but that's only because of the work thing stressing me out. Once they finally get their damn acts together, life will be fabulous again.

it wasn't just the gift-wrapped penis, although that was the major reason

I returned from my jog this afternoon to find a friend request on Facebook from none other than Mr. Dick in a Box himself. My first reaction was, of course, "GAAHHHH!!" I retired to stretch and think it over. I have a couple of options, of course. I can ignore it for awhile and continue to think it over. I can decline, and even block him. I can allow him to see my limited profile, or I could hold my breath, take the plunge, and just approve him fully. Do I really want to be petty about this? But, more importantly, do I really want to allow him access to the cyber side of my life?

This is the weird thing about Facebook. As Jo and Tim have said, it's just unnatural. We are meant to lose touch with these randoms from high school or whatnot whom we have not thought about in years. I mean, sure, it's fun at first to find out that a girl you had at your seventh birthday party is getting married tomorrow, but when you start approving friend requests from people because you vaguely recognize their name and then have to quiz your actual friends about whether or not you DO know so and so, it's a problem. And in that same vein, if you stop returning phone calls from a guy because he gift-wrapped his genitalia on your third date, you should be able to wallow in the luxury of never having to hear from him again--once he takes the hint, of course.

Yes, I am feeling guilty about not manning up and telling him politely that he should find some other tree to put his presents under, but it just seemed easier at the time to ignore it all, and hope desperately that he didn't show up at my workplace. I guess this is karma. For the record, he's apparently in a relationship now, so I can safely assume that he's not going to be offering me any more gifts.

Anyway, for now I'm sitting on it, but it's going to be there, bothering me, everytime I open Facebook from now on. Avoiding people in cyberspace is hard. I leave my MSN messenger signed in and set to away pretty much 24/7, just so that if people I don't feel like talking to message me, I can pretend I'm not there plausibly. I read this today, and while it's not precisely the same sort of situation, you just have to think that all this access is... not good.

"You realize that 'slut' is just code for 'I'm jealous of your sex life.'"

Inspired by a talk about book-purchasing with a friend of mine, I ventured forth to my local Indigo Books and hunted down Full Frontal Feminism, a brand-spankin' new manifesto by Jessica Valenti, one of the bloggers from Feministing.com. I wanted to read it since I read about it on the site, but it was on my "later's work" list. And now, despite not only planning on going to bed early, and also having planned to finish The Barmaid's Brain before cracking its spine, I've finished it and am all riled up and raring to go.

Just as a sidenote, it was a bitch to find... call me naive, but I thought that perhaps it'd be on one of those handy display tables. I couldn't remember her last name, which I thought was what was hindering me; really it was just that the women's studies part of the Community and Culture section was on the other side of the shelving, so I missed it completely. After I commandeered one of those handy computers and searched the title I scoured the area and was victorious.

Sometimes, it seriously made me nauseous--and I ain't talking about the writing. I self-identify as a feminist and freely get angry about stuff, but I had no friggin' CLUE about some of the shit that goes down. It's mostly State-side stuff, but they are our elephant, so it's best that Canadian girls know what the hell is happening to women's rights south of the border. Anyway, now I'm all pissed about things that I was peripherally aware of, but too damn lazy to look into myself.

Also, I'm feeling super bad about a snarky comment I made about the chick in Disturbia. I said I just didn't believe that she read anything; our hero (who I WILL refer to as TheBeef) charmed her by having noticed that she reads books... although he finds this out by spying on her doing yoga and swimming in skimpy bikinis. Oh, I'm still torn on this issue. They never make it entirely clear if she knows TheBeef has been spying on her when she first goes over to his house. Having an ass like that pretty much means you can get straight guys to do your bidding. It shouldn't be like that, but it is; hell, I'm certainly guilty of using a smile to get what I want. Anyway, deepest apologies to that fictional character: rock your improbable body and (plotwise) un-utilized smarts. If I had your legs I'd probably wear stuff like that too. And hopefully still read books. But I think I'd have gone for the Asian guy instead of TheBeef. He was much more hilarious, and cuter (I don't care what you say, L.Ro).

Back to the informal book review at hand: go read it. It's an easy and fast read, and it'll change your perspective. I wish I'd read it when I was younger; being a feminist is no cake walk, but having a guide like this would have helped me cut through some of the bullshit that influenced me (and still does, really). I've been trying to get into The Female Eunuch for a little while, and my inability to do so was vaguely making me feel like a bad person. But Full Frontal Feminism was straight-up awesome and incredibly current. I just wish it were in hardcover, so I could whip it out and beat a couple people with it. I've got a mental list.

me too, Pig... me too

there's a man assigned to me / he checks on my stability

I don't know why I bother talking or listening to myself. I'm not very nice. I mean, besides my tendency towards being melodramatic, sometimes I'm straight up mean. Sometimes I wish I had voices other than my own in my head, just for a change of pace. And I mutter to myself on the street anyway; it'd be nice to have an excuse.

Bombing auditions always makes me talk to myself even more than normal. And I'm stuck with myself until Toni and Jo come down. I'm actually considering calling my mother; that's how desperate life can become in the span of an hour and a half.

Hey, do you even know if you're delusional? No, right? Is it possible to be completely deluded about one part of your life, and no other? But I guess someone would have to say something eventually, so if I were sitting here saying, "Fuck so and so. I'm not delusional! So and so's delusional!" that'd probably mean something. And no one's said anything so far. Unless I deluded myself right out of having heard it.

I read this thing somewhere about physical deformities being the most frightening for humans in the medieval times. Leprosy and all that. But now it's mental illness that's scariest. It has to do with needing physical prowess to survive then, and mental acuity for now. I started watching ER again a couple weeks ago, and one of the characters just got horribly maimed. I actually gasped when they finally revealed the extent of his injuries. I can't think what would be worse. Either way, systems you've depended on for years have just suddenly gone haywire and will never be quite right again.

Re: the ER thing... I only saw the last three episodes, and I'm suddenly a Neela and Ray 'shipper. This romantic streak I have hasn't died yet, dammit.

Speaking of season enders, I downloaded the song from the end of the Scrubs finale, and now I've ended up with Say Anything's entire album. New love!

only one out of one hundred... I hope I was doing something good with the hours I didn't waste

So I'm going through Rotten Tomatoes' list of the 100 Worst-Reviewed Films of all time, and I got to number 25 before I ran across one I'd actually seen. I was IN one of the previous ones (well... supposedly, but I don't know if I made the final cut in the background, because I refuse to watch it. Cheaper By the Dozen 2, if you're wondering). Anyway, #25 is Down To You; the only thing I remember from it is Freddie Prinze Jr.'s conversation with a spider. I get sucked into watching these random rom-coms disturbingly often. I feel like that one was the fault of my high school friends, just because most of the instances in which I see terrible movies can be blamed on them. Except for Greendale, which was possibly the strangest thing I ever saw on a big screen. By the way, Jo, Glitter was on the list, but Honey was not.

On a somewhat related note, I saw Waitress tonight with L.Ro. I friggin' loved it. I had an irrational thing against Keri Russell (based pretty much entirely on the fact that in the first episode of Felicity she gave up an amazing school for a BOY. As a nerdy tenth grader, I was outraged, and refused to watch it. What do you want from me? I was fifteen), but she's back in my good graces, and I think I might have to buy it when it comes out on DVD. This was a purely Pajiba-inspired choice; a while ago they posted the trailer, and my interest was piqued. After they gave it a rave review, how could I miss? Also, as a sidenote to those of you who have never worked in the restaurant biz... what Joe does to her in his first appearance is the reason we drink so much. Cussies who do stuff like that. But I guess the ending is reason enough to be nice to them.

L.Ro and I toasted to not being pregnant afterwards at the Bedford Academy. I've been wondering lately what it must feel like to be in the kind of mental place that would allow one to get married and seriously consider spawning. A couple of people I've reconnected with on Facebook are engaged/married/knocked up. I've been on a three date maximum for the past year.

for Toni, my little photographer

yeah, I'm cool... deal with it

he got me when he drew the line across the guy's forehead

pop quiz, hot shot

I was watching Speed today, and I realized that I deeply and un-ironically love it. I totally have a girl boner for Keanu Reeves. He is smokin' hot in that film. No lie. Toni is going to make fun of me over this, but I DON'T CARE. Plus, it was TENSE. I've seen it several times, but I was freaking out because I was sure that lady's legs were going to get taken off by that elevator. I'm pretty much going to have to buy it on dvd.

Went shopping, and found meself some work jeans. And if they shrink the way I hope they will, I'm only going to have to get one of the three pairs hemmed. My freakishly stumpy legs are a cross that I bear whiningly. I also bought a fabulous dress that I cannot wait to wear. I really have to start work.

The fact that Seventh Heaven is (was? did it finally get cancelled?) a successful show worries me more and more each day.

for awhile, with the vertigo cured, we were alive, we were pure

Spent the weekend in the 'Saugs, due to a pressing invitation to get roaringly drunk with my ex co-workers on Saturday night. I even managed to get rides both ways. On Friday, Em and I went to see a completely improvised musical at the Bad Dog Theatre in Greektown. It was fabulous. The level of trust that improv actors have in each other always impresses me. I tried watching "Thank God You're Here" a while ago, and it was terrible. The supporting actors were so clearly working from a script that was set up to fuck with the guest. That's not how it's supposed to work.

Em's got the graveyard shift at work this week, so she was trying to switch her hours around. We hung around my place and then drove to the 'Saugs at three in the morning. This wasn't the best plan for ME, because I'm trying to make my hours LESS vampiric, but I guess you gotta do stuff for your sis every now and then. At least she doesn't need a kidney (yet). And plus, I got a ride back here since she was on her way to work at ten thirty at night.

Once there, my plans to go straight to sleep were derailed by the fact that Mother had left a book on my bed. I'd very nearly stolen it from her over Easter, but I relented because she wasn't finished yet. It was Bill Bryson's Neither Here Nor There, an account of his travels through Europe. I have trouble putting books down once I get into them. Anyway, I ended up staying up an extra hour or so. I finished it today, and my desperate desire to go back to Europe has increased tenfold.

In continuing reading news, I've now plunged headlong into Made in America: An Informal History of the English Language in the United States (Bryson again). It's pretty fascinating so far, but I think I'd enjoy it more if I knew more about American history. I'm also technically reading The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins, but I don't like his writing style, so I'm not really into it. His tone comes across as patronizing. Bryson, on the other hand, sounds like the best university professors do. He digresses, and gives you random and entertaining bits of trivia that actually make things memorable.

On Saturday I finally picked up the last of my paycheques from TJ's. It was nice to walk in there, and later at the party, because everyone yells "SUZE!" and gets super excited. I got intensely drunk (it was a kegger), and am actually still hurting from it right now. Stupid hangovers. Still, I managed to not make an ass out of myself (I think... events are somewhat hazy), although I did have the same conversation with Martin approximately three times.

In other news, on Friday an exterminator came by the building to check for mice or cockroaches. I haven't seen any, but now I'm totally on edge about it.

call me up, take me down with you when you go... I could be a regular belle

Lately, I've been spending an inordinate amount of time reading up on song meanings at this one website. Most of the posts are by illiterate idiots nattering on about how much they love or hate various artists and songs, but some of them are actually researched and intelligent. And it saves me from having to look up info on the songwriter's love life/regional slang/political leanings. There's little to no way of knowing if what's on there is what the songwriter actually meant, but it's interesting to find out what other people are getting out of the lyrics.

I love looking up lyrics; I tend to do it for most songs that I fall for. I don't often get into the life stories of artists. It's kind of fun to find out that such and such song was written after so and so's horrendous break-up with whatshisface, but I treat it like it's movie trivia (which I'm also a big fan of. I read the trivia page of every movie I look up on the Internet Movie Database). Neat to know, but not a deal breaker when it comes to enjoying it.

Perhaps it was my encyclopedic knowledge of Star Wars that ruined me for other obsessions. The New Jedi Order books sucked harder than the prequels, and those two in combination killed my blissfully nerdy childhood. Here's a good one for you: when the Phantom Menace was coming out, my local Chapter's had a trivia contest for a hardcover copy of the novelization. Three contestants showed up: two weedy ten year-old Asian boys and me, sixteen and broad-shouldered from being the butterflier on my high school swim team. I KICKED THEIR ASSES! Is it sad that I'm still kinda proud of that? I think they gave all three of us copies of the book, but we all know who the winner was.

But the new additions to the series just killed it all. The authors were pretty much fighting each other (I come squarely down on the side of Timothy Zahn, if you're wondering) and refusing to accept other work as part of the canon. It was already going downhill before Han and Leia's kids started having ridiculous adventures, but that was the final straw. And I, proud owner of various guides to the Star Wars universe, was left bitter and disillusioned.

Anyway, the point of all this rambling WAS that song meanings = fun, but I think could have lived without someone explaining that Chelsea Dagger is a tranny hooker (The Fratellis... you already love them, you just don't know it yet. Go download Flathead and tell me I'm wrong). Man, I shouldn't write things when I know I can't possibly be coherent. I still love the song, I just think I liked my version better. Not that it made much sense, when I think about it. Tranny hookers it is.

just hopin' you may be somewhere a' walkin' after midnight searching for me

Despite the fact that it a tres dangerous practice, I think "Walkin' After Midnight" by Madeleine Peyroux is my new favourite song. Thank you, The Hour, for getting me hooked on more tuneskis. In related news, my iTunes habit may become a problem.

So I finally did something I've been wanting to do for awhile: I went to see a movie all by my lonesome. And it was super by my lonesome, too; there were five of us in the theatre, total, and three of us were on our own. It was nice. I shamelessly spread my shit over other seats and didn't have to be mortified that I got popcorn down my shirt--which I invariably do, so why I'm still embarrassed about it when in company, I don't know. I saw Young Triffie, which was not as fabulous as I had hoped. I laughed, yes, but I expected more belly laughs out of Mary Walsh and company.

Still, since I usually do idiotic things in public, it's nice to have someone to laugh with. Also, someone to hold your popcorn while you de-jacket and arrange your things. I'm not overly social in that I need someone to go with me to do things; I'm okay with my own company and often just prefer to be alone. But I'm not quite at the confidence level that would enable me to walk into a bar and have a drink alone, unless I was waiting for someone. Possibly because of my people-hating ways--I wouldn't be comfortable if someone came up to just chat.

I have another two weeks to kill before my new job starts, and I'm not going to lie: I'm bored out of my mind.

I walk the floor and watch the door, and in between I drink black coffee

Another sign that I'm watching too much TV is that I nearly boycotted several brands of toilet paper purely because I hate their commercials. Then I said, wait a second, Susan... you hate all toilet paper commercials. Just buy some damn TP.

Not that this is going to have any impact on their sales at all, but I'm also boycotting Viagra. Those commercials annoy the shit out of me.

While I'm doing a list of things I'm ineffectually boycotting, I'm never going back to the Second Cup near my place. I ordered a large Mocha Red Eye, then cooled my heels, rocking out to my iPod. It seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time. The guy mumbled something about whipped cream, so I leaned around the appliances that were blocking my view. There was some kind of chocolatey iced concoction taking shape on the counter. "Er... I asked for a Mocha Red Eye. You know, the hot one? A coffee with chocolate and espresso?" Then we had a polite-ish argument over whether or not eye meant iced. We condescended at each other for a few minutes; I pointed at my eye, he told me that when people ask for ice, that means he puts it on ice.... It's just too much to deal with when I need a hardcore caffeine fix. I eventually got my coffee, but I'm pretty sure that man thinks I'm an idiot, and will complain about me to his friends and family.

But I love those Mocha Red Eyes too much to never go back to Second Cups in general. Just that one. I think I'll glare at it every time I walk by for the next couple weeks, until I get over it. You know, just for kicks.